When I began my journey at Hooters I figured I'd spend a fair amount of my time defending my job. Perhaps not even so much as defending my job, but rather defending my own intelligence and substance. Defending myself as an individual. And it turns out that yes; I have had to do my fair share of proving myself in a way. I've had to show people that I am not some stereotype and that - perhaps more importantly - that stereotype doesn't really exist. But you know all this.
What I wasn't really prepared for when I began at Hooters was the fact that my family would also have to defend my job. This leap is understandable, but it's not something that really crossed my mind until the first time I watched my Mom defend me in front of a particularly nosey and outspoken neighbor. You know the type; we all have one in neighborhood. It was then that I realized my family had to escape the Hooters stigma too.
My sister has perhaps done the most in defending my job. When at a party, she encountered a girl speaking about one of her classmates. I'm not sure of the full content of the conversation, but I know it was punctuated by "and get this, she freaking works at Hooters" and other such negative things. The girl she happened to be talking about was Ariel and my sister just so happens to adore her.
Sister: "Oh you know Ariel? She is so perfect and gorgeous and smart. Did you know she's a philosophy major? And on top of being pretty and smart she's generally awesome too."
Score, sister, score. But that altercation is not the most heinous thing my dear sister has encountered. The most awful thing happened in class. In a university meant to be a bastion of higher learning. You know, a place where people are supposed to smart. Apparently admission standards have really gone downhill. Anyway, there she was one day in class discussing something or other that was generally educationally when this happened.
Not So Smart Girl: "Well Hooters has the highest fecal matter of any restaurant because the girls there are always having to pick their wedgies. That's why I'd never eat there."
Naturally, my outspoken, opinionated, awesome sister went on to shut this girl down because she is - as I mentioned - awesome. And actually has a brain. That's important to note as well. I love you, dear sister, thanks for further illustrating the splendid thing that is our gene pool.
So, Not So Smart Girl, lets break this down shall we. First off, I don't pick my wedgies at work. Believe it or not, nylons are rather taut and as such I don't get many wedgies. I have to say, the whole not having wedgies thing is a pretty nice feeling. Second, if I did pick a wedgie at work I'd likely follow said wedgie picking with hand washing. Mainly this is because I'd probably be picking my wedgie in the privacy of a bathroom. As hot as picking nylons and shorts out of my crack on the floor would be I don't think my customers would really appreciate it. Finally, why on earth would there be fecal matter involved at all. I'm pretty sure the best way to pick a wedgie is from the outside, not the inside, of the situation. Why on earth would I randomly have my hand down the inside of my nylons in my butt crack? That's right, I wouldn't. So this leaves me with the idea that you somehow think that I have poop all over the outside of my shorts. How the hell did that get there?! That's just awkward.
Don't worry, Not So Smart Girl, my hand did not go from my crack to your Daytona wings. I'm pretty sure I know about basic hygiene. Or at least I know a lot more about it than you know about basic logic.